


Never a Deed So Foul

by simmyschtuff



Category: Dexter (TV), House M.D.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-22
Updated: 2019-06-22
Packaged: 2020-05-16 17:25:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19322749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/simmyschtuff/pseuds/simmyschtuff
Summary: House wakes up in a bit of a pickle. (Crossover with Dexter)





	Never a Deed So Foul

" . . . three . . . f-four . . . five . . . "

There's a man on a table. He's naked, and he's confused. His eyes dart this way and that as he tries to figure out where, when, what, who and how, but the industrial strength tape against his forehead and wrapped around the table keeps his head stationary, he can only look so far. 

No doubt his surroundings somehow blurred into one loud, colorless blob while he was unconscious. No doubt, as he somewhat calms, as he swallows loudly, he's able to trace the general, overwhelming feel of discomfort to each cause. The cold table beneath his naked body from the glaring light above his face. The slight pinch in his neck from the voice. 

"six . . . seven . . . " 

There is a voice, and it's tense, and worried, and scared, so much so that it manages to sound more tense, worried and scared than Australian just then. No doubt, it takes the man on the table a moment to process it.

He attempts to say something, but it comes out a dry, raspy croak. Tries again, "Chase?"

Chase doesn't respond, but his voice shakes, " . . . e-eight . . . "

Chase's profile; it's strange, for the man, at this angle. The angles he lives in, the angles he utilizes involve looking down and sometimes across, very rarely up. But as he's flat on the table, Chase standing over him, his angles are somewhat limited. There's a light behind Chase, shadowing most of his face. He looks surprisingly young, blind terror rounds out his features. The contrast, this terrified child standing over him, the obviously unsure expression combined with this unwanted position of power, it disturbs the man, it's clear on his face.

Some shifting identifies what's holding him to the table as saran wrap. Massive amounts of saran wrap. 

"N-nine . . . ten."

"Chase?" It sounds more like a name this time, less like a grunt, a raspy attempt at breathing.

"Hello Greg," Chase says, and it sounds flat, like he's reading it out loud, and the man's eyes finally adjust to the darkness enough to see -- yes, he makes out that Chase is staring off, over his prone body. It's an understandably distracted gaze, flicking down, then shooting back up as if physically repelled by the sight of his former boss. 

Greg House seems to have gathered his wits; recovered from a rare moment of speechlessness. "What the fuck--"

"Don't bother talking to him. He's not going to deviate from the script," Chase says, voice wavering violently. Cue cards. There are large, white cue cards lining an otherwise non-descript, plastic covered room, the man's eyes grow wide as he registers them. The sight terrifies him; perhaps it's the level of preparation, preparation he knew nothing about. 

"He knows what will happen to the both of you if he gets creative. I hope you don't hold him accountable for any of this. I've been watching you for months, planning for weeks. There's nothing he could've-- could've done." Chase takes a long, shaky inhale, lifts what House only realizes is a scalpel when its sharp, cool edge is pressed into his cheek. "You're a very smart man, Greg. It's a pity we'll never get to meet."

The cut's long, and deep, but it's fast, probably more surprising than painful. " _Shit_ ," House spits anyway, nearly talking over the next line, and really, the most important one:

"I kill people," Chase reads; he sounds like a wire strung too tight, about to split in two. House's breath, perhaps even his heart, stops for just a moment. An honor, surely, to affect Gregory House so deeply. The hand holding the eyedropper against House's fresh cut is steady, and collects a good sample of blood. "Most who find themselves in your position--" Chase stops here abruptly, composes himself. "this is the end of the road. I'm good at what I do. I'm careful."

"Look at me," House says, and Chase does, briefly. "Let me up. This isn't a bad horror flick, we don't have to do --"

"You hurt people. You're selfish. You're also in constant pain." Chase focuses on the next cue card with his entire being, nearly shaking. House's expression closes off abruptly, his mouth tightens. Cross Chase off his list of resources? Perhaps just realizing he's not going to be able to talk his way out of this one. It's the truth, and perhaps -- although that's probably too perfect -- that's when House notices the long red line across Chase's throat, the barely healed cut cheek of his own.

"It isn't usually such an elaborate set up. Normally it'd be just me and you, but that's not possible. You're a ruthless, resourceful man, giving you a face to look for would be too much of a risk," Chase says. "Even with a mask you'd be memorizing my height, weight, my mannerisms. My own thoughts, my own phrases, are enough of a risk. You've probably figured out by now that you're not dying tonight."

House doesn't look particularly surprised, but that doesn't hold much weight either way.

"You see, I've got a code. You've done nothing to deserve the path I've lead other victims down, save those terminal patients you offed . . . but that's stretching. I don't stretch. No, what's going to happen tonight is for your benefit. This is utterly deviant from my Moe-- M.O., I'm not getting any satisfaction out of this," Chase says. "I watched you long enough, Gregory House, to know you don't deserve to die, but you're about as close as you can get. I'm not going to leave things as they are."

Chase looks positively sick, as if he was the one on the table, when he picks up the wad of gauze. He's obviously torn between looking away and trying to find a gentle, respectful way to shove it in House's mouth, tape it in. He's absorbed in his next task, rolling the tray to the table, into House's view.

"I wonder," he says -- is he actually going to cry? "If you've worked out what's happening next. There's medical equipment to the left. Are you wondering, 'Does he--'" Chase chokes, shakes his head. "'--get off on mutilation?' Am I going to cut you up beyond recognition? Do you think I'm delusional, psychotic, or have your friend and I managed to convey the method to my madness?"

He's making a show of putting on the gloves, slowly and deliberately, as if he can put off the inevitable. Maybe if he takes long enough, the gruesome task he's been assigned will lose interest. It's okay, the gruesome task hasn't got anywhere else to be tonight. 

"You've taken 14 pills in the past 24 hours. If you hadn't abused so much, that would be more than enough for what's about to happen."

He opens the cloth damp with disinfecting fluids, brings one down to mid thigh. Just above House's scar; it's large, disfiguring, something Chase had clearly been trying not to look at. He wipes with wide, thorough strokes, it almost seems normal. 

House is trying to say something, wiggling, straining against the wrap frantically. Chase closes his eyes. The cue cards have now wrapped around completely, and he's probably relieved, to be able to look at anything other than the helpless man behind him.

"There are benefits. Mobility, loss of pain, but you know all that. So I have to wonder what your problem is. Pride, maybe. If you're still defending a choice you made years ago while delirious with pain. Fear? Fear of no longer being whole. A fear that you caved under that night, a fear that's followed you all these years."

Chase picks up a scalpel. "I have to thank you though. Whatever the case, you've certainly made me feel better about myself."

The man on the table is sweating terribly, breathing hard and eyes wild as the first incision is made. He's soon screaming angry, foul, incomprehensible things, and Chase winces, freezes up, shakes with each noise.

They're not going to make it, House's eyes are already losing focus, Chase is wobbling by the time he picks up the saw. 

It's fine, Dexter doesn't expect either of them to last to the end. Once Chase passes out from shock, House from blood loss, he'll go in and finish the job.

It's his good deed for the year.


End file.
